Revolutions Great and Small2 Whoever Has the Heart
by storytellers
Summary: Series: How friends, enemies and big messes are created. Book 2 - Whoever has the heart to love should also have the voice to speak.


**Author's Note:** Exactly a month after the end of book one I welcome you now to the second book of the series. Still no slash in this one but I have to warn you, my dears, I doubt we will be avoiding it forever. So for those of you for whom it's not their cup of tea, enjoy this book and consider it dedicated to you. The title, as always, comes from Jehan's poems and you will see the whole poem by the end of the book. By the by, there are some factual mistakes in the last book that I promise I will get around to fixing at some point, sorry for those. For example, I will agree with Colonel Despard that Hugo's Enjolras is actually unlikely to use the word 'winesack' unless maybe when he is in a particular mood so Adrien will refrain from it in the future as well. Also, he is studying sociology and politics because I am sick of pretty much everyone being a law student.

**Revolutions Great and Small**

_**Book 2**_

**Whoever Has the Heart to Love Should Also Have the Voice to Speak**

**29th January, 1832**

_Funerals attended – 1_

_Revolutions to be planned – 1_

_Members of Les Amis – 7and a half (hopefully subject to change)_

Years ago, seems like a lifetime now, two boys met on the grounds of an estate outside of Paris. Their ages were fourteen and seventeen, their hearts were carefree, their minds curious and their friendship new and growing with the wondrous rate of a newborn child. Politics had not truly entered their lives yet and their conversation was lighter, if no less intelligent, for it.

These two boys had been brought together by a grave occasion. A small white gravestone in a secluded part of the garden of the estate signified the resting place of the younger boy's brother who had never lived to witness his own birth. The older boy was the son of a renowned doctor who had been called from the neighbouring town to examine the younger one's mother, to help her recover and to find out why she had only ever been able to give birth to one living son.

But despite this dark shadow that loomed over the house, it was summer and the joy of finding a kindred spirit and the glory of life soon outshone the sadness of death. And by the end of that summer, those two boys, neither of which was prone to excess sentimentality, felt compelled to make promises and vows. Those promises and vows would hold stable and true over years to come despite the hastiness they had been made with and the instability of the whole world around them.

As years passed, they stayed involved in each other's affairs, developed their characters and convictions side by side. What kept them together were their shared lives and passions but what often brought them closer was death. They held on tighter with each frozen corpse they saw on the streets of Paris, with each grave illness or execution they witnessed and sometimes through the deaths of loved ones. Simon Combeferre, the renowned doctor, passed away in 1826 and his son, left with the task of comforting a grieving mother and sister, preferred to seek his own comfort from his friend. And the friend felt privileged to offer it.

And now, five years later, Justinien Combeferre had to say goodbye to his mother as well...

I went, of course. It never even crossed my mind not to go. And along with the sadness and solemnity I felt for the occasion, there was the hope that it may give us a chance to regain that precious connection that seemed to be slipping away from us.

My parents, back from their trip, were also present but they were understanding enough to not try to occupy my attention and Combeferre's older sister had, by this point, a husband and children to console her so we were left mostly to our own devices.

"You didn't tell me she was ill when we last spoke," I said as we walked in the cemetery the day after the funeral.

Combeferre shrugged.

"She was often ill these last few years. They had me late in life, there was always a chance they may have to leave me early."

"She was a fine woman," I said pointlessly, wondering why such a rehearsed phrase had slipped my mouth. He smiled at me nonetheless.

"That she was, but you didn't even really know her. You were more acquainted with my father. But my mother, believe that if you will, was the stronger character. You may have liked her had you ever found yourself in her company for long enough."

"I fear I am ill-qualified for the company of any woman. I even have trouble communicating with my own mother these days."

Justinien shook his head, now looking almost amused.

"That is because you think you have to treat a woman differently than how you treat a man."

"I am just as ill-qualified for the company of most men, my friend."

This made him laugh and I smiled. I would gladly go much further than discussing my flaws to see his grief alleviated. I would do the hardest and most embarrassing things if I thought they would help. But, of course, Combeferre never asks for much more than simple companionship.

It felt safe and familiar listening to his gentle admonishments and hearing his advice, whether I decided to follow it or not. Then, unfortunately, the conversation, after moving away from the topic of women, lingering on the welfare of our mutual friends and the news of Bahorel's older sister coming to visit, inevitably took a more serious turn.

"So much death, Enjolras..." Combeferre murmured quietly surveying the gravestones we were passing. "All around us. It comes even without our help. Why would any man wish to inflict more of it?"

"Death is sometimes necessary for the continuation of life," I argued.

"Death sometimes is, yes. It's only natural. But killing?"

"If there is no other way..."

"How are we to know?" His eyes were, as it was often the case, thoughtful when he fixed them on mine. "I am afraid of you sometimes, Enjolras. Afraid of the day when you will not hesitate to take a man's life. And even though I know you would never do so with pleasure or unjustly, I don't know how I will stand to witness it." He took my hand. "I'd rather not see blood on these. They could do better things."

"There's blood on them already," I answered, looking down at my own pale palm in his more tanned one. "There's blood on everyone's hands and on the streets and in the rivers of France."

"Then more blood won't wash it away."

"No. But our generation is a sacrifice. Those after us will have their hands clean to build and write and invent. To bring about the progress you dream of. It will be their job. But not before we have done ours."

He watched me silently for a time before patting my hand and smiling.

"I don't always know whether I want you to be right or wrong, my friend, but I do know that I will always love you regardless."

This was at least reassuring, if not exactly what I wanted to hear from him.

A day later we returned to Paris and each to our own occupations.

These are the events that have distracted me from keeping this diary for some time but our organisation has not been idle in the meantime. Pamphlets are being composed and printed and it's time to start recruiting again. Les Amis de l'ABC _will_ be restored to its full power!

**End Note: **I beg of you to comment as you know that nothing prompts me to upload faster like reviews. Thanks :).


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